Concerto
by ShadowsOffended
Summary: Modern Day AU. Christine, a shy but talented trumpet player, is given the opportunity of a lifetime to be tutored privately by the reclusive genius Erik Leroux. He says he can help her achieve something real, but the journey they take together, mired in obsession and seduction, will bring them far more than either of them anticipated.
1. Chapter 1

_Author note: This is an AU inspired by my favourite city in the world, my favourite book in the world &amp; multiple viewings of Whiplash and Secretary. It's an AU so expect mostly OOC moments and pretty much total deviation from the original story. I hope you like this._

The winds whipped up a frenzy, battering Christine's face as she jogged up Princes Street. She remained deaf to the world thanks to her trusty headphones, which now crackled intermittently thanks to overuse and her inadvisable habit of listening to her music too loud, although the streets were too quiet to require much distraction. At this time in the morning in Edinburgh, with Winter giving way to Spring far slower than anyone would have liked, most residents were sensibly wrapped up in bed, waiting for the inevitable ring of the alarm to alert them to the start of the week. Christine, however, enjoyed the solace of her morning jog, even with the city's infamous wind offering a further challenge to the proceedings.

Her trainer-clad feet rhythmically pounded the pavement as she passed the few locals who waited for the bus (or tram if they were feeling especially lucky today) in states of semi-consciousness. The adrenaline kept her warm against the chilly conditions, with sweat leaving trails down the back of her black vest along with the rain. With a day ahead as jam-packed as hers, she needed the best start possible, so she braved the elements and set a good pace from her flat in Leith, up the Walk and into the city centre. She barely noticed the iconic sights in her path, from the castle atop the monstrous rock to the grand statues throughout Princes Street Gardens, but the mere knowledge of their presence brought with them a strange comfort she would never live without. The most vibrant city in the world surrounded her and she had the privilege to call it her home.

As she turned the corner from Princes Street to Lothian Road, she picked up the pace and made a dash for her destination. She hadn't taken her usual running route to the university today; she needed a boost of inspiration. Quickly wiping the rain and sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, she sprinted across the road, narrowly avoiding a bus, and made it to Festival Square, the large plaza space that sat empty except for a scattering of park benches and a mammoth screen that stayed mostly switched off these days, except for special occasions. There was nothing special about today for most people but for Christine, she had confidence that it would be remembered as a life-changing moment for her.

Her favourite bench was empty and she quickly sat down, taking deep breaths and letting her aching feet rest. She hit pause on her old iPod, the battery of which was lucky if he lasted longer than 3 hours these days, and enjoyed the sounds of the city, from the sparse traffic to the opening of the various shops on the road. She loved this bench and in truth it had been that bench that partially convinced her to study in Edinburgh. That bench offered the greatest view in the city.

Directly in front of Christine stood the New Usher Hall, the newest and (in Christine's opinion) grandest building in the entire city. After a devastating fire saw the old Usher Hall burned to the ground over a decade ago, the world's top architects had been called in to create a new masterpiece, one that Edinburgh and the artists of the world would be proud to call theirs. Eventually, an anonymous submission won the job, much to the shock and outrage of many, and the New Usher grew from the foundations of the old.

The creation certainly made an impact: a strange combination of the hard edges of stone with the majestic waves of gigantic titanium that curved around and atop the structure like a blinding storm. Various windows littered the rooftops like peepholes between the gaps, as if the metal were struggling to hide something from the world that was desperate to break free. Even from her distant view, Christine could faintly make out the borders of traditional Celtic knots carved into the granite above the black double doors, the old melding perfectly with the new. It had taken many Edinburgers a long time to warm to the building, yet Christine had loved it instantly. What aspiring musician wouldn't want to perform there? Even her dreams shone with the memories of those metal curves reflecting the sunlight of a warm summer's day. The weather may not have currently matched her fantasies but the illusion remained whole, nonetheless.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a slight movement in one of the windows she'd been staring at; a shadow that bore a resemblance to a human silhouette, backlit by what Christine thought may be a lamp of some kind. She moved her body forward, as if that short distance could offer her a better view, afraid to move her gaze lest the shape disappear. Unfortunately, a passing bus provided enough distraction and once her view cleared, the shadow was gone. Oh well, she shrugged, must have been a cleaner or something.

With her breath back at a regular pace, she looked at her watch and knew she didn't have much time left for wistful thoughts, so she turned her iPod back on (French electro – the best music for running) and turned back to the way she came from. Get back home, have a quick shower, put on the face and catch the bus to Nicolson Square. Today would be a perfect day and nothing could get in her way. She allowed herself a quick glance back at the New Usher and smiled. Soon, she told herself. So soon.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 1. The New Usher is a building I made up - the real Usher Hall is way less fancy but still a beautiful building - but everywhere else mentioned exists. _

Elephants and Bagels offered one of the best – and depressingly pricey – treats in the city. It also happened to be located next to the Reid School of Music in Alison House, therefore offering a temptation most students just couldn't resist, depleting funds be damned. Christine felt she deserved a treat today, particularly since the rest of the day had been doing so well. Her essay on music and society in Regency era England had received 83%, an easy A (she maintained it deserved at least an 85, but she remained far too polite to say anything about it), she had crammed in a good couple of hours of research in the library, securing an entire table to herself for her multitude of books, and she'd managed to buy a student price ticket for a matinee of the Scottish Ballet's production of _A Streetcar Named Desire. _That kind unrivalled success in her day deserved a lunch to match.

She entered the cosy bagel place and quickly dumped her bag and trumpet case at an empty table before joining the queue. Her shoulder length chestnut hair had looked far more put together when she left the flat that morning after her shower and blow-dry, but the rain had left it a touch frizzier than she would have liked, and no amount of patting down on it seemed to help. At least her make-up (naturally done but with a plum lip) had stayed in place.

"Hi there," the cheery woman behind the counter asked. "What can I get you?"

"Hi," Christine replied, meekly voiced. "Can I get a poppy seed bagel with parma ham, pesto, sundried tomatoes and mozzarella cheese, please? And a can of Diet Irn Bru too, thanks."

"No problem, that'll be £5.50."

Christine still cringed at the price but she'd stop grumbling once her bagel arrived. She'd been caught in that trap too many times before.

"Thanks again. Just go sit down and I'll bring it all over to you."

With another thanks, Christine took her seat and pulled out an old paper on improvisation as social process. Every spare moment was a moment that could be spent studying or catching up on things Christine may have missed. While the workload may have lightened somewhat in the jump from 2nd to 3rd year in her course, she couldn't allow herself to slack for one minute. Laziness could only lead to bad things. She found herself engrossed in the paper and read through it as she quickly munched on the bagel the waitress brought her.

"Hey, stranger!"

A loud thump on the table interrupted her peace as a familiar face dropped jam-packed satchel on the surface, causing Christine to flinch and her plate to clatter.

"Always one for a dramatic entrance," Christine sighed, her smiling betraying her stern tone.

"Mind if I join you?" Meg asked, sitting down before Christine could reply. "Been a while since I saw you."

"Not really," Christine shrugged, putting the remainder of her bagel down and wiping her fingers on a napkin. "I saw you last week in Teviot."

"That was at least 3 weeks ago and we barely exchanged a couple of sentences."

"I was in the middle of group work meeting."

"I'm not judging!" Meg's laugh filled the small café, with its low ceilings and tables clustered tightly together, loud enough to make heads turn to their direction. "I'm just not sure it's healthy for any student not in the middle of exam revision to be as studious as you are."

"Remind me again why people come to university?"

"Well, to get away from home, to meet new people, to drink extensively, to claim student discounts, to be an adult without any of the responsibilities, to…"

"I get it," Christine interrupted Meg as she counted reasons on her fingers. "I've just been busy with class and stuff."

"I hear you there. Hope your exploits are going a whole lot more successfully than mine."

"What's going on?"

Meg rolled her eyes and let out a long sigh, her joyous mood immediately dissipating. That was never a good sign. Christine could think of very few people who were as vivacious in their everyday lives as Meg, who epitomised the philosophy of the half-full glass. Right now it seemed as though her glass were empty and shattered across the floor.

"Well, I went to an audition for one of the student theatre groups," she started. "They're doing _Cabaret _so of course I had to audition. So I go in, I do my number and as soon as I'm done I can tell they're gonna say no. Which is fine, don't get me wrong, rejections are part of the process. But the first thing the director – who looks about 12, by the way – says is how 'unusual' it is to see 'a woman like you with a voice like that'."

"Ah."

"And then, to rub salt onto the very gaping open wound, the other director says he expected something a little more 'soulful' from me."

"Of course."

"Because apparently a black girl with dreads and a soprano voice is a scientific impossibility. I keep my mouth shut and listen to this racist bullshit for a bit more before they tell me I'm 'just not what we're looking for' because it wouldn't be period appropriate."

"Didn't you know, Meg? Black people weren't invented until after World War 2."

"I smile, thank them for their time and get the hell out of there, then when I'm standing out in the hallway trying to stop myself from punching a wall, some stranger starts cooing over my hair them grabs a chunk of it!"

Christine cringed hard enough to pull a muscle as Meg finished her story and looked ready to flip a table.

"I think you need a coffee. I'll get you one."

She signalled over to the very understanding waitress for a black coffee with no sugar and reached out to stroke Meg's arm comfortingly.

"So there's another theatre group off the list for auditioning processes. My list of okay ones is getting shorter by the minute. I may just start singing on the Royal Mile or something."

"Did you see the guy dressed as Predator outside Starbucks last Fringe? I heard he was pulling in a grand a day for just standing there."

"Art is dead," Meg laughed.

"Not quite but give it time."

Meg's coffee came over and the pair of them thanked the waitress. For a few moments of comfortable silence, Christine finished her entirely delicious bagel while Meg practically chugged down her hot coffee, a skill Christine envied somewhat, although she doubted it was good for Meg's throat.

"So," Christine said. "Do you want to hear some good news?"

"Always."

"The Royal Scottish National Orchestra are holding special auditions for an orchestra made up entirely of students from Scottish unis. They're gonna do a bunch of shows during the International Festival at the New Usher."

"And you got in?"

"No, but I'm definitely going to audition. I mean, I might as well, right?"

"You know, Ms Daae, you are allowed to pay yourself a compliment now and then. I'm sure you'll get in no problem."

Christine shrugged but couldn't hide her shyness. Part of her knew she was a good trumpeter. After all, she had to be at least a competent player to have made it as far as she had. Her father had spared no expense in her musical education from the earliest age, sending her to the top tutors and entering her into youth competitions across the country. Her ears rang with the compliments she'd received from adoring teachers and her memory filled with the rosettes lining her childhood bed. Yet all of those wonderful things could so easily be blurred away by the smothering ever present force of self-doubt.

"I haven't really auditioned for anything this big in a while," she admitted. "It's daunting."

"There's nothing wrong with having a little confidence in yourself," Meg said, taking a long sip of her drink. "You've got the skills and the abilities they're looking for. Remember when mum came to watch the trumpet orchestra play last semester? I believe the word she used was 'stupendous'. Actually," Meg stroked her chin in a faux-pensive manner. "I'm pretty sure I remember her mentioning something about being a judge at some upcoming auditions. Seriously, you're in there."

"I'm pretty sure there are rules against that kind of thing. Conflict of interest or something."

"Hey, consummate professional, my mother, but it doesn't hurt to have connections in this industry."

"The audition's in a couple of hours so I'm grabbing a lunch and heading back to Reid for a quick practice."

"What are you going to play for the audition?"

"I haven't decided yet," Christine admitted, feeling sheepish.

Meg laughed loudly again.

"Really playing it by the seat of your pants, eh?"

"It's handy to have a few options," Christine reasoned. "You need to scope out the room before settling on a piece. It's one thing to go in there with a soft old classic all nice and prepared, but if you go in after 20 other auditions and the judges have heard nothing but that kind of music, you're not going to make an impact. You could be the best one in the room by a mile but by that point in time everyone's asleep. I'm not taking that risk."

"Eh, I can understand that. Just makes more hard work for you."

"I like hard work."

"And I like sleeping."

"I find it to be overrated somewhat. A necessary evil."

Meg laughed before finishing her coffee with two big gulps.

"I'm sure your boyfriend appreciates that sentiment. Anyway, I'll leave you to it." She stood up and straightened out the creases in her flimsy striped top. "Good luck, Christine, and let me know how it goes. If I hear trumpets of anguish coming from Leith, I'll assume it's you."

The pair hugged quickly and then Meg left with a dramatic wave. Christine glanced at her watch and decided it'd be best to leave now to get a crucial extra few minutes of rehearsal time.

Christine arrived first for auditions, of course. That provided her with a number of advantages – the first to make an impression, no expectations beyond her own reputation – but also a few issues. For one thing, being the first meant she couldn't entirely scope out the competition. She had a few ideas as to who her opponents were but could only speculate for now. Lily Andrews would probably try out, even though she took part in more societies than anyone else she knew. Garrison Simmons was good, maybe even great, but his stage fright played havoc with him. Her biggest competition lay with Cara Wu, but even then she didn't have the theory marks to match her technical prowess, and Christine knew from experience that every little helps.

The waiting got to Christine more than anything else. Long waiting times in empty corridors led to distracted minds and that only ever caused trouble. Time to think meant time to speculate about the worst possible outcome, and Christine was nervous enough as it was. She'd lived with self-doubt for a long time and it had ruined a lot of good work and left her too much of an emotional wreck to cope. She'd gotten through years of pre-adolescence music classes with tyrannical tutors and classmates who seemed to have had their professional musical careers planned out from pre-birth by parents with unachieved ambitions.

All things considered, Christine had had an easy run at things – a supportive parent until the day he left her, a few standout teachers who preferred the tough but fair approach, and a series of scholarships and competition prize money that just paid off the big costs. She'd struggled but she'd never starved, and she had the talent to pull off truly magnificent feats. However, that magnificence required a sturdier driving force, and for now, only Christine could provide it.

"Miss Christine Daae."

Christine looked up from her seat towards the door where Ms Giry stood and her future waited. She stood up, brushed her knee-length navy dress with her palms and carried her bags into the room.

She strode into the room, a sparsely furnished room usually used for small rehearsals, and her eyes locked upon the two occupants of the long table at the farthest end. She recognised Richard Firmin, the slick haired creative director of the RSNO, with his clearly rumpled shirt and peering eyes that were a touch too small for his face. To his left sat an even sterner faced woman with glasses perched on the very edge of her nose, wearing an all-black velvet ensemble that suggested she was on route to a funeral. It didn't quite set the mood Christine had been hoping for but she'd auditioned in worse circumstances. She supressed a shudder at the memory of the Hackney audition and the days it had taken her to get her shoes back to their original colour. She headed straight towards them, hand outstretched, and introduced herself.

"Thank you so much for this opportunity," she said, offering them both a firm handshake. Ms Giry, a familiar face from many years as a friend of Meg, shook her hand and offered a quick pat on her shoulder. She had even tutored Christine a few times over the years, although her particular area of expertise lay more in strings. Still, she was a woman in possession of immense talent and warmth, even when her stern eyes, made all the steelier by her tightly pulled back hair, suggested otherwise.

"Good to have you here, Christine," Ms Giry said with a warm smile as she took her seat, her accent the epitome of a Morningside woman. To her left remained an empty metal chair with a MacBook placed on the table in front of it.

"This is Richard Firmin, who I believe you know," Ms Giry said as Firmin nodded in Christine's direction. "And composer Julie Carlotta."

Crane's curt nod barely constituted a greeting but Christine returned the gesture all the same. Julie Crane remained a favourite composer with the RSNO (even if Christine found her work a touch derivative and overtly focused on the wind section) so she needed to stay on her good side. Politeness continued to be one of the most powerful tools anyone in Christine's position could utilise. Charm the other side into submission and you're halfway there.

"And also joining us today via Skype," Ms Giry continued. "We have Mr Erik Leroux."

For the briefest of moments, Christine tensed up in shock. Her eyes darted to the MacBook, whose screen had long since turned black, and she forced her face to remain relaxed. Suddenly, all that pressure she'd been trying to avoid dealing with came hurtling towards her like a freight train.

"I assume you're familiar with his work?" Ms Giry asked.

"Who isn't?" Christine laughed, although her sentiment remained true. Erik Leroux inspired the kind of discussion and emotions in the modern music community that she imagined Mozart must have in his day. The conductor had a reputation for being a man of staggering genius, a creator of ground-breaking symphonies and, above all else, a figure of extreme privacy. Nobody had even seen a photograph of the man and now he was apparently on the other end of a Skype call waiting to hear Christine play. The man who very publicly eschewed a life of celebrity and adoration for one of reclusive mystery would be judging her audition.

"It's an honour to audition for you, Mr Leroux," Christine said clearly, although nobody replied. To puncture the awkwardness that had begun to fill the silence as they waited, she readied herself by preparing her sheet music for the stand and carefully removed her trumpet from its case.

She had sold her television and entire DVD collection to help pay for her newest trumpet once she started university. The yellow brass – just polished the previous evening – glistened under the bare neon lights above. This instrument was her pride, her joy and her weapon, mightier than any sword. If she could nail this audition and earn the approval of one of the true greats, nothing would ever stand in her way.

"Whenever you're ready, Christine," Ms Giry said, a hint of encouragement in her voice.

Christine nodded and placed her preferred choice of music on the stand, readying herself with a few deep breaths. With her shoulders back and her eyes focused on the notes, she put the mouthpiece to her lips and began to play.

As the notes swelled from the trumpet and filled the room, Christine felt her entire body lift with it. Each dip in the melody and wave in the concerto vibrated through her like an ethereal force. While she kept her focus on the sheet in front of her – even though she'd played this piece enough times to know most of it by heart – she let herself be given over entirely to the experience of the music.

This was why Christine she put everything else aside in favour of achieving her dream: because nothing in the world, no other sensation or accomplishment, could ever hope to live up to this otherworldly feeling, as if she were possessed by the music itself. Everything else in life had been ruined for her but she couldn't find it in herself to care. Tragedy became joy and the seemingly inescapable pits of grief became climbable through her music.

The piece came to an end with a sharp succession of staccato that grew to a triumphant climax. As she pulled the trumpet back and licked her lips, she could instantly tell from the looks on the panel's faces that she'd succeeded. Giry beamed like a proud parent, Firmin nodded to himself as he took notes and even Carlotta's stern face managed to soften into something vaguely human.

"Well, I can't speak for everyone here but I must say I found that remarkable," Ms Giry said with evident joy. It always reflected well on the faculty to have their students surpassing expectations in such circumstances.

"You certainly have immense control over your instrument," Firmin added. "Very pure tone. Is that a Yamaha?"

"Yes," Christine replied, still clutching her trumpet as if it were a prized childhood teddy.

"How long have you been playing that particular instrument for?"

"Since I started university. I used to have a Bach but this one's far better for playing on the upper register."

"Good choice."

"Miss Daae," Carlotta said, her voice high pitched but nonetheless commanding. "It's safe to say you've lived up to your reputation. I'm reasonably sure I saw you perform in a high school competition about 5 years ago and even then your talents were exemplary. I'm intrigued to see where the future takes you."

"Thank you so much, Miss Carlotta. It means a lot to hear you say that."

"I think we've heard enough. We'll get back to you as soon as we've heard the other auditions."

Christine didn't bother to supress the grin taking over her face. She knew enough about this process to read between the lines and it sounded an awful lot like she'd just passed with flying colours. As she reached to pack away her sheet music, a new voice piped up.

"No."

It took everyone a few seconds to realise the negative response had come from the MacBook. From Erik Leroux.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Mr Leroux, did you have something you wanted to add?" Ms Giry asked, clearly bemused by the interruption.

"That won't be necessary. We won't be hearing back from her any time soon."

Christine froze. Her fingers curled around the side of the music stand tight enough for the metal to leave indentations on her skin. That was a categorical no, there was no way she could reason it into anything else. Park had said no to her.

No.

"Well, Mr Leroux, I think we should at least discuss this first," Carlotta added. "Miss Daae has shown immense talent and…"

"And her efforts were fine. That's all they were." His baritone voice, strangely devoid of an accent, interjected. "Arutiunian's concerto is a flashy piece and it was serviceably handled. Anyone could have played that piece and it sounded like just anyone did. We're looking for excellence, not good."

The three judges at the table suddenly seemed flustered by the rejection and unable to talk back: grown-ups reduced to toddler status with the appearance of the steely voiced dominant. They looked at one another with futile expressions and Ms Giry shrugged with a solemn shake of the head. Christine couldn't believe it. These people who were bending over backwards to congratulate her mere moments ago were now content to let her future slip into the gutter as they looked at her with defeat.

"I could play something else if you'd like, Mr Leroux," she quickly added, flipping through her sheet music.

"As I said, that won't be necessary."

Silence returned. Christine's heart hammered against her ribs and her perfectly manicured nails formed angry red crescent moons in her palm as her fingers formed a fist.

"Well… Thank you again for coming in and auditioning, Miss Daae," Ms Giry said, moving towards her for another handshake, this one out of pity.

It wouldn't end like this. She'd never forgive herself or anyone in that room if they let it end at the command of a troll who didn't even have the nerve to put his face to his voice. She pulled the sheet music she'd been looking for and placed it on the front. She didn't have as much time to prepare as she would have liked but desperate times called for desperate measures.

The first note from Christine's trumpet stopped Giry in her tracks, the fury evident in her eyes. Her fingers moved with speed and dexterity as she played Bernstein's Mambo, a piece not intended for trumpet solos but one she'd always loved. If Leroux wanted exceptional then she'd gladly give it to him with all the force she could muster.

The Mambo was pure fire and passion distilled into musical form. She'd played it numerous times before as part of an orchestra but had only practiced the trumpet version in her bedroom from sheet music she'd painstakingly prepared by hand. This wasn't standard audition music – indeed, it wasn't standard anything – but it was most certainly beyond just fine.

As she approached the climax, building up to a frenzy, she found her body involuntarily leaning forward as if she were ready to pounce. With her frizzy hair, burning gaze and ferocious playing, she imagined she looked a little less than human at that moment in time. She couldn't bear to look at the fickle judges as she forced everything she had into the final notes and ended with a flourish, pulling the trumpet back from her thin lips and holding it far from her body as if it were ready to combust.

Nobody said anything for what felt like an excruciatingly long time. The judges looked at one another and then back to the computer, its screen still black and no response forthcoming. Eventually, Christine got sick of waiting and packed up her things, forcing her trumpet back into its foam lined case with more force than necessary. With her case in one hand and hastily stuffed bag in the other, she straightened out her back and held her head high.

"Thank you for your time," she said as clearly as she could, desperately hoping nobody heard the slightest waver in her voice. She didn't cry as she left the room and stormed out of Alison House and onto Nicolson Street, with no destination in mind. She didn't even cry when she finally made her way back to her flat. She imagined it would have been much easier for her if she did cry, but no tears came and the humiliation seared her insides like a hot poker.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for the comments and thanks for your patience. Hope you like this bit._

Fortunately for Christine, her flatmate spent most of her time outside of studying with her girlfriend, meaning the cost flat was solely Christine's domain for the evening. She didn't think she could face gentle mocking over her angry pouting or the way she seemed determined to slam every door shut. Usually she turned to music as her outlet for pent up emotions but right now that trumpet, still in its case dumped at the bottom of her bed, felt tainted.

This wasn't just a run of the mill rejection: she had enough of those to her name to know the difference. What had happened in Alison House with that empty voice was nothing short of a disgrace. Having someone dislike you is one thing, but Leroux's systematic shut-down hit her harder than she had expected it would. It had nothing to do with Leroux's standing or his incredibly legacy; it was the coldness in his voice when he so quickly dismissed her audition. She hadn't even warranted a response with any semblance of emotion, and those sheep who had been so eager to please her with pleasantries and fawning words quickly fell back in line when that voice cracked the whip. A vigorous rejection had its merits and offered real opportunity to learn. Christine had no idea what to do with Leroux's dismissal, and she loathed the self-pitying stupor she found herself descending into. There were few things quite as pathetic as failed artists complaining to nobody about how they deserved better.

She needed something to focus her mind on for the next few hours until bed: something that didn't require excessive amounts of brain power or human interaction. She reasoned with herself that she'd done enough studying for the evening to justify a night off and picked out her battered and torn copy of _The Crying of Lot 49 _from the shelf that held her favourite books. A lazy night re-reading the best novel ever written would salve her wounds.

No sooner had she begun the first chapter when the phone rang. She bit back a sigh and answered.

"Hello?" She said, keeping her tone peppy.

"Hey," a familiar voice responded, warm and safe.

"Hi, Raoul."

Even though she hadn't been in the mood to talk to anyone, she couldn't deny that the ever recognisable French inflections of his light voice lifted her spirits. She hadn't seen him in a couple of days and, while she enjoyed the alone time, his absence had been felt.

"You doing okay?" He asked. "You didn't respond to my good luck texts."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I… Yeah, been a bit wild around here."

Christine hadn't even noticed the texts. She quickly picked up her mobile and noticed a number of unopened messages, which made her feel a touch neglectful.

"So," her boyfriend, her sweet and attentive and ambitious boyfriend, asked. "How did your audition go?"

"Ah. Yeah, well…"

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad, Chrissie. You just have to have a little faith."

"That's easy for you to say," she said, forcing out a laugh. "You weren't there."

"Come on, I know you and I know how good you are. You're always so hard on yourself."

"This one was a bit different, Raoul. The judges… They just shut me down pretty much immediately."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they told me I was crap and sent me on my way?"

"Seriously?"

"More or less."

"Oh, that sounds pretty shitty."

The swear did raise a smile. Most of the time, Raoul was far too dignified and gentleman-like to resort to something as uncouth as cursing, although his accent did make it sound wonderful.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Not my proudest moment, to be told by some jackass over Skype that I'm a mediocre trumpeter and be humiliated in front of my best friend's mum."

"Skype? Is that how auditions work nowadays?"

"The modern world sucks."

"Hey, don't knock all of it."

Raoul the business major had big dreams of founding the next great internet start-up, although his enthusiastic and jargon filled pitches to Christine mostly left her confused as to what exactly it was he wanted to create. Numbers and tech talk were indecipherable to her, whereas melodies and symphonies came to her naturally.

"Do you want me to come over?" He asked. "I'll bring some food and a few beers and I'll stop by the DVD place and rent one of those Scandinavian crime show boxsets you like."

"Thanks for the offer but I really just want some alone time to mope around for a bit."

"Are you sure? I don't want to leave you alone if you're upset."

"Honestly, it's fine. I need to get in some practice as a depressed artist anyway."

"I can be there in 5 minutes."

"Raoul, seriously…"

"I haven't seen you in a couple of days and I really think it'd be best if you were…"

"Raoul!"

She hadn't meant to respond so sharply but out it came and the stony silence that followed made her cringe. Surely she shouldn't feel so guilty for that, she reasoned. If he couldn't take no for an answer then that shouldn't be her problem. He could be so insistent, so eager to be right, even with instances where nothing was up for debate.

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "I don't want to fight. I just need some quiet time. It's not you. The audition… It just took it out of me."

"No, no it's okay. It's fine. I'm sorry for… Yeah. Look, I'll give you a call tomorrow. Or you can text or whatever. I'll take you out to dinner and we'll have a proper catch-up."

"Okay. That sounds wonderful."

"I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay."

"You're a fantastic musician, Chrissie. Don't let the Skype man tell you differently."

"I won't. Bye now."

"I love you."

"I love you too. Bye."

Raoul hung up first.

Christine suddenly remembered why she hadn't wanted to talk to anyone today. The bliss of hearing her gorgeous boyfriend's voice had been short lived and now she had another level of stress to deal with. Relationships were hard work, a fact known to everyone on the planet, but knowing that and living it were two totally different things. Balancing studies, a part time job, coursework, hours of practice and extra-curricular activities on top of making time for Raoul had proven nigh on impossible, even for someone as organised as she. This short and all too rare moment of peace, free of responsibilities and commitments, should have been one to savour. Now she just found herself tenser than ever.

She picked up the book again but before she could even reach the first chapter, the buzzer for the door rang shrilly, interrupting any chance of peace she had. With a grumble, she forced herself up from the sunken old couch and towards the speaker.

"Hello?" She asked, an edge to her tone.

"Miss Daae?" The voice – a male one, possibly American – asked.

"Speaking."

"I've been sent by Mr Leroux to pick you up. Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?"

"I don't know, miss. It's just my job to take you there."

Christine stared at the speaker, her finger pressed hard on the call button, and tried to figure out what was happening. Did Leroux want to rub further salt onto the wound or gloat over her earlier rejection? Clearly being the classical music world's foremost reclusive genius meant you had a lot of free time on your hands. Or this was all a scam designed to make her day just a little bit worse. Knowing her current run of luck, that didn't seem entirely impossible.

"Uh huh, sure, hilarious. Look, I've had a bad day and I'm not up for this crap," she groaned.

"Miss Daae, I'm not joking and Mr Leroux would greatly appreciate it if you came as quickly as possible."

"You seriously want me to believe _the _Erik Leroux is waiting for the pleasure of my company after he took a giant piss all over my work?"

"I don't know the details, Miss Daae. I'm just here to do a job. If you don't believe me, look out your window and you'll see me and the car."

Hesitantly, Christine stepped away from the speaker and headed towards the tall windows on the other side. If you peered through the trees blocking the view, there was a surprisingly good view of the castle in the distance. She opened the window enough to allow herself to lean out and look down at the street two storeys down. A figure stepped into sight, well dressed in a dark grey suit and black tie with thick rimmed glasses. He stared at Christine for a few seconds before waving and pointing to the extremely flash black car parked in the space reserved for her flat that remained empty aside from parental visits.

There was indeed a man with a car and that man said he'd been sent by Erik Leroux. That didn't make it true, of course, but it did present a number of strange possibilities and questions she wanted answers to. She signalled back inside and headed towards the speaker. It rang again and she quickly pressed to call.

"Okay, so assuming you actually are Leroux's guy and he does want to see me. Why would I just get into a stranger's car and go off with them?"

"Mr Leroux says he has a proposition for you."

"And what makes him so sure I'll say yes."

"He didn't say anything about that, Miss Daae, but if it were you, I'd take the offer."

"Oh really?"

"It's a good offer."

She paused again and considered her options, but not for long. She knew all too well that sheer morbid curiosity would win this one and she couldn't blame herself for that. She wanted to look in the eye the man who had her doubt herself, the mysterious recluse who had the musical world at his fingertips and made grown men and women flounder with a simple command.

"Okay, I'll be down in a second."

"Mr Leroux requests that you bring your trumpet."

"Fine. Coming down now."

She grabbed her bag and case from her bedroom and lifted the keys from the table by the door, making a mental note to text Meg before she got to wherever her destination was, just to be safe.

She sat silently in the backseat – of a Mercedes, because of course Leroux had a Mercedes – and mindlessly picked at a fly thread on the leather seating. The driver didn't divulge in any awkward chit-chat, which she appreciated, although she noticed him peering at her in the interior mirror. The tinted windows gave her the brief allure of celebrity as they drove past, with pedestrians staring quizzically through the glass, trying to see who sat on the other side. Leith Walk never truly went silent – there was just too much blood in its veins for that – but that evening remained relatively quiet, with the pavements less packed than they were during the day and the road less clogged up by other vehicles (thank the powers that be that the trams didn't come down here, Christine thought).

The drive down Princes Street proved to be a slower journey thanks to those infernal trams and the previously reliable bus service that clogged up most of the road. This route went a lot quicker when you ran it.

When the car eventually pulled in at the side of the road by the New Usher, Christine stared back at the driver's gaze in the mirror, her expression bordering on slack-jawed.

"I'm afraid I can't wait here for long, Miss Daae, so you'll need to get out now," he said.

"What, and go into the Usher?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's waiting for you."

"So I just waltz right in without any fuss?"

"You don't need to waltz, ma'am."

"Stop calling me ma'am."

"Miss Daae," the driver said, clearly growing impatient with this exchange. "Everything is prepared for your visit. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm blocking up traffic."

She quickly exited the car, clutching her trumpet case close to her chest. The wind, while not as fierce as it had been that morning, still tried its hardest to whip up her skirt as she tentatively approached the foreboding structure she'd been admiring only a few hours ago.

The main doors were closed but as she reached them, they opened to reveal Ms Giry, who at least had the decency to look sheepish after the day's events.

"Ms Giry, what are you doing here?" Christine asked as she entered.

"Oh, I was just… I'm leaving now, Christine."

"Ms Giry, I don't understand what's going on. What happened today?"

"I… Well, it's a… An interesting story," she stammered, laughing with discomfort. She'd never seen her like this until today. Usually, Ms Giry stood as the beacon of control in the music department; the kind of professor every student dreamed of having. Her criticisms were always tough but fair, going down with a spoonful of honey, and she delighted in every student's achievements as if they were her own children. Now she seemed browbeaten and crumbling under pressure, with a sheen of sweat on her brow despite the oncoming chill.

"What happened today?" Christine asked, verging on interrogative. "What happened at the audition? Why does he want to see me now?"

Ms Giry sighed, her sad gaze flickering from Christine's chin to her nose to her forehead – anywhere but her eyes.

"Christine, I don't think I can explain it. It would be best for you to hear it from the man himself. He's in the auditorium."

She turned towards the open doors that led to the grand stage of the New Usher, the stuff that her dreams were made on, and shuffled towards them, barely noticing as Ms Giry left behind her and closed the doors. She wondered if she was alone in this immense building designed to hold thousands. Well, alone except for him.

The auditorium of the New Usher rivalled its exterior in terms of sheer grandiosity. The waves of titanium were duller than their companions' outdoors and worn as if they'd been through battle. The panels were shaped like irregular wings and lined the borders of the inner circles and framed the vast stage. Christine ran her fingers across the rows of midnight black fold-up seats as she passed, thinking of the various evenings she'd spent watching performances of everything from music to opera to theatre and even stand-up comedy. The stage in front of her remained empty, free of any sets or props that usually populated it, and ready to transform.

Christine looked around her at the grand sight of an entirely empty New Usher Hall. Limitless fantasies flooded her mind as she considered the various performances that could be put on in this very auditorium. She thought of standing front and centre as the first trumpet in a full orchestra performance of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto, clad in the finest silk as an enraptured full house hang on to every exquisite note she played. The applause would be deafening, of course, and the standing ovation one for the record books. Christine stepped up towards the stage, the excitement of her fantasy concert ringing in her ears. Even with a sea of empty chairs, the view from the stage rivalled any other sight she'd encountered.

"Hello?" She called out, her voice reverberating through the auditorium. Great acoustics, she thought. "Anyone here?"

No response came except for her echo. Instead, she started to move her feet, remembering fragments of her childhood dances classes (all of which had been catastrophic failures and a necessary sacrifice in favour of music). The soles of her cheap slip-on purple shoes provided too much grip and not enough tap for the full effect but Christine still found herself enjoying the clumsy yet enthusiastic moves. She would probably never get an opportunity like this again so she may as well mess around.

"Are you done?"

A voice boomed from some unknown space above Christine, causing her to flail in shock and stop in her tracks. Her eyes darted from place to place, looking for the source until she saw a figure hiding in the shadows of the private box to the stage's left. She couldn't make out much from the silhouette beyond it being one of a man. She placed the voice instantly.

"Sorry," she replied, calling out to the box. "I was just looking for you."

"Not very hard."

Oh, she thought, it was going to be like _that. _

"Are we going to have a real conversation, Mr Leroux, or would you just prefer to sulk around in the shadows like a bad gothic villain?"

"Villain?" He asked, amusement clear in his tone.

"Well, you haven't exactly been heroic lately. At least not to me."

Leroux stepped forward into the beam of light that divided the box and into Christine's view. She hadn't known what to expect but the figure above her certainly didn't fit that bill. He wore a mask, perfectly moulded to the contours of the top half of his face, its colour almost as dark as the sweep of thick black hair that almost blended into the background. His square jaw framed his lips, which had taken on an unmistakable smirk. She knew he had a somewhat eccentric reputation but even Christine hadn't been prepared for the super-villain look.

"My heart bleeds for you, Ms Daae," he said.

"Am I here for a reason or did you just want some practice for your heckling?" Christine asked, already devoid of patience for this man.

"Play something for me."

Christine raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"Excuse me?"

"You brought your trumpet. Play something."

"Why?"

"Why?" He repeated.

"Yes, why? You clearly don't think my playing's all that so why do you want to hear more?"

"I have no problem with your skills, Ms Daae, I simply have no time for talented people who think they can sleep through the audition process and be rewarded for it."

She shifted to walk away, sick of this incessant needling of her admittedly bruised ego, but giving him the upper advantage would just annoy her more.

"How would you know if I was 'sleeping through' an audition when you couldn't even be bothered to turn up?"

Leroux stepped forward and placed his hands on the protective rail surrounding the box. He leaned forward, his stare piercing through Christine as the ever-present smirk curled into something that would almost be warmer if it came from any other human being.

"Because I know you can do better," he said. Christine felt entirely exposed all of a sudden.

"And how would you know that?" She asked, her voice lower but still loud enough to reach Leroux.

"You did audition twice, after all."

Ah, she thought. So he did pay attention to that, and it must have made an impression. Why else would he have sent a car to pick her up for a one-on-one evening in an empty theatre? This had to go beyond a rich diva wanting some kicks.

Slowly, she placed her case on the ground and opened it up, removing her trumpet with far more care than she'd shown it earlier when forcing it into the foam in a fit of rage. She didn't need to look up to know Leroux was staring at her, possibly trying to put her off.

"Any particular song you'd like to hear?" She asked, disdain dripping from each syllable.

"Surprise me."

She went through the options in her head. Hummel's concerto had some wonderfully languorous moments that required more skill than most novices imagine but he had been so unimpressed with her Arutiunian so perhaps Haydn? No, she thought, too obvious. She didn't want to be accused of sleepwalking through another audition. Given that it was an interpretation of a modern that so intrigued him, perhaps she should stick to that period.

She grasped her trumpet – not too tight, just loose enough to allow for necessary dexterity – and focused on a spot on the wall in the far end of the stalls, counting down in her head as she placed the trumpet to her mouth and began to play.

The iconic melody of _La Vie En Rose _began, each note clear and free from slurring, it was a simple piece, by no means requiring the finger acrobatics of her earlier Bernstein performance, but that didn't diminish its power or its emotional kick. She avoided the urge to add extra flourishes or unnecessarily showy high notes, instead focusing on the best possible version of the piece as it was. By the song's end, her eyes were closed and nothing existed beyond her tiny bubble and the tune that played forever in her mind.

With the song over, she brought her trumpet down to her left hand side, her eyes tightly closed. This wasn't fear of rejection, she told herself, although she struggled to define what exactly was going through her mind.

"You have good control over your instrument," Leroux said eventually. "It's an easy piece of music to fall flat with."

"Thanks," Christine replied, her ego daring to make a reappearance after an earlier beating.

"Still some stiffness in your movements, of course, but I can see why Miranda was such a cheerleader for you."

It took Christine a few seconds to connect this Miranda cheerleader to Ms Giry. Shame she hadn't been so vocal in her corner earlier in the day.

"I guess that's probably the nicest thing you're going to say to me all night, Mr Leroux."

"I wouldn't have had you pegged for someone who prized an emotion as frivolous as niceness."

"I wouldn't have had you pegged for…" Her voice cracked from the incessant yelling at one another. "Look, could you please come down here and finish this conversation? This yelling's exhausting."

She couldn't quite see it but she was convinced Leroux rolled his eyes as he turned around and left the box, appearing a couple of minutes later on stage with Christine, hands in the pockets of his impeccably ironed charcoal suit. He waltzed towards her with the kind of self-possessed poise that suggested he owned the place. Who knows, Christine thought, he probably does. He's apparently rich enough for that. Yet there was something else in his movements, something foreboding that made her blood chill for a few moments.

"You're not suited towards the more classical style," he said.

"Back to insults, are we?"

"You have the necessary control and you've clearly practiced enough to master the basic technique, but you're stiff. There's no fluidity to your movements. You play exactly as you were taught to. It's… pedestrian."

"And yet you asked me here to perform. On my own. In the New Usher. You sent a Mercedes to pick me up. Clearly I'm of at least some interest to you. What's this potential I have that you just had to hear?"

Leroux moved ever closer to Christine, circling her like a vulture waiting for its prey to drop dead so the feast could begin. She brought her trumpet to her chest, half expecting him to snatch it from her. It had been a long time since someone had made her feel so childishly awkward, and suddenly she could understand why Ms Giry and the judges had been rendered feeble under the mere command of his voice.

"You're good enough for the student orchestra," he said, pronouncing the phrase 'student orchestra' as if it were something to be spat out. "That much is true. But good is not what you should be aiming for."

"I'm not aiming for good," she fired back. "I'm aiming for perfection."

"Perfection doesn't exist," he snorted. "It's a falsified concept designed to distract and destroy."

"So what should I be aiming for then?"

He stopped behind her, mere inches from her back. He stood only a few inches taller than her but he may as well have been ten feet tall.

"You should be aiming for something real," he responded, voice soft and close to a whisper against her ear.

"And you think you're the one who's going to help me reach that sense of real, whatever that is?"

She tilted her head backwards to meet his, not realising how precarious her position was until their faces were separated by a mere breath.

"I must say, Mr Leroux," she continued. "That's awfully presumptuous of you."

"Well, you're here, aren't you?"

She didn't have a witty remark prepared for a response to that. Of course she would do as he asked. There were millions of musicians around the world willing to sell their worldly possessions and otherworldly for 5 minutes with Erik Leroux. His symphonies inspired frenzies in artistic circles and Christine even owned a number of his recordings. The fact that Leroux had gone to all this effort to make her a proposition suggested big plans for her and her career. Who could resist an offer like that? She may have been a studious and shy woman at the best of times but even she succumbed to the tantalising possibilities of curiosity.

"What are you offering, exactly, Mr Leroux?" She asked, forcing her body to remain stiff in its awkwardly bent position as Leroux hovered by. As he stepped back, she let herself breathe easy, her trumpet still grasped in her increasingly sweaty palm.

"I'm offering an opportunity I don't hand to just anyone, Ms Daae," he replied, entering business mode. "Private tuition, one on one. We'll work out the scheduling later."

"You want to tutor me? Is this for the orchestra?"

"As I said, you're good enough for the orchestra but I feel it would… limit your potential. A place in a gimmick should not be your ultimate aim. Indeed, no arbitrary position like that should distract you."

"So I'm being tutored for what reason? Your amusement? Why me of all people?"

"Of course not. I take my position very seriously. I see in you a power I seldom encounter in modern music these days, much less so from a student. You need guidance to reach your zenith, and if I may be so presumptuous to say so, I'm the only one who can give that to you."

"Aren't you a pianist?" She asked, expertly raising an eyebrow. "What do you know about the trumpet?"

"This is a one time offer, Ms Daae, and I need an answer now," he said, an edge of steel to his tone.

"You know I'm going to say yes, Mr Leroux."

"Then say it."

"Yes. Yes, I accept your offer."

"Good." He held out his hand and she shook it firmly, a brief battle for supremacy between the two of them, one she had a sneaking suspicion would not be the last.

"I should of course let you know, Ms Daae," he continued. "That I am a stern teacher. My methods are… vigorous."

"I like vigorous."

"I will never hold you to anything less than the highest standards."

"Fine by me."

"Then let me offer a prerequisite to our first class." The remains of warmth dissipated from his voice as he straightened his back and stood before her like a drill sergeant. "Stop holding your instrument like a rag-doll."

Christine looked down at the trumpet which she had at some point began cradling like a baby. She quickly changed position but could still feel the blush taking over her cheeks.

"It's infantile and makes you look like an amateur. My driver will take you home now. We'll begin tomorrow."

Leroux didn't bother to wait for a reply as he strode backstage, leaving Christine bemused and just a touch embarrassed by what had happened. She stood glued to the spot for a good minute or two before Leroux's driver came in to guide her back to the car. In the back of the Mercedes with her trumpet case resting on her lap, she thought back to her curiosity and what it inevitably did to the cat.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you for your reviews. I am reading them and seriously appreciate every kind word, I just suck at replying to them. Hope you like this chapter. _

Christine didn't hear from Leroux once his driver dropped her off at her apartment, and the only contact she received came from a check-up text from Meg, who she quickly replied to with a promise to tell her everything once she had time. It did cross her mind that Leroux potentially didn't want many other people, if any, to know about their new partnership of sorts, given his reclusive reputation. She would be a fool if she ran around screaming to anyone who listened that _the _Erik Leroux was her new tutor, so she made a pact with herself to only tell Meg, someone she wholeheartedly trusted. She probably knew the man in some capacity if her mother's relationship with him signified anything.

The next morning, she still hadn't heard any further developments from Leroux or his people (she imagined he had a whole team of arse licking goons desperate to obey his every command – every reclusive genius should have them). While she had tried to put thoughts of him and their new deal to the back of her mind, her preoccupation had quickly turned into a full blown obsession. The magnitude of the offer she had accepted weighed heavily on her, so as she ate her breakfast and indulged in a lazy morning – classes didn't begin until after lunch – she pulled out her laptop and googled Erik Leroux.

The usual articles came up – a long yet surprisingly substance-free Wikipedia page that covered the basic milestones of Leroux's life, various YouTube clips and archived reviews of his work, and a limitless supply of think-pieces analysing his evasion of public attention, even as his work grew in stature. Christine knew most of the details of Leroux's rise to fame, or at least as much as anyone knew. There was whisperings of a prodigious child creating symphonies that poured from his mind like a spring river. Leroux's talent caught the eye of numerous agents and scouts who begged him to perform to braying crowds at the most exclusive venues across the globe, and yet he turned down every offer. The cash offers increased and yet he still said no. Instead, substitutes performed in his place. The greatest orchestras scrambled for the honour to premiere his masterpieces. No pictures of the man existed online or anywhere else.

The rumours swirled around the mysterious Leroux as his work increased in volume and skill. Some said he didn't exist and was a pseudonym for a number of composers collaborating on major pieces. Others theorised that he couldn't handle the pressure put upon him from a young age and ran off to live in some hut in the mountains, free from civilisation and electricity. Every few years or so, more conspiracies arose and the music world would dedicate a few days to trying to analyse them. To many, Eric Leroux would be the great mystery of modern music, forever unsolved.

So it turns out he may have been walking freely around the streets of Edinburgh this whole time, or at least as freely as a masked man could walk around a heavily populated city without being noticed.

After a morning of investigation, Christine packed up her things and headed to her one class for the day: music theory. While her heart lay with the more practical aspects of music, she found the drier, more analytical side of her studies as fascinating as any other part of the course. Breaking down something so rooted in emotion to its very foundations offered an entirely new way to look at a familiar piece, and knowing its history, influences and context created a whole new listening experience. She excelled as a student of the written word. It required a lot less nerve.

She studiously took notes – with her minuscule looped handwriting that required the most skilled analysts to decode it – as Ms Giry talked at length on compositional theory, wildly gesturing and employing the kind of dramatics more suited to a one-man play than a tutorial. It always made for a stirring class, although Christine couldn't help but notice how Giry, usually so eager to engage with her students and ask questions of them as she talked, seemed focused on ignoring the 12 3rd year students around the table. Often, Christine would ask a question which would tangent off into its own separate discussion. Indeed, those deviations were one of the reasons she so appreciated Ms Giry as a teacher. Now, that lack of interaction seemed glaring, and a quick note shoved in her direction by the student sitting next to her indicated she wasn't the only one to notice it.

As the lecture wrapped up, Christine packed away her things and quickly glanced at her phone. No new messages or missed calls so Leroux still hadn't been in contact. Not that he had her number in the first place but she doubted that would be a problem for him. He seemed like the kind of guy who could get such information easily, legally or otherwise.

"Ms Daae," Ms Giry piped up. "May I have a word with you?"

The formal greeting didn't bode well. She nodded and shared a look of surprise with her classmates as they left the room. Ms Giry's earlier bravado had disappeared, making way for hunched shoulders and downward eyes that seemed almost guilty.

"Ms Daae…" she repeated. "I… I understand things are… Well, you…"

"Ms Giry, what's going on?" She asked, already impatient with this line of conversation. "How do you know Erik Leroux? What went on in the audition room?"

Giry's shoulder's slumped, free of the tension that had been building in them for what felt like aeons. The ice had been broken, at least.

"Erik tells me you've agreed to be privately tutored by him. I must admit, I'm surprised he took that step."

"Yeah, something tells me he doesn't make offers like that very often."

"That would be the understatement of the century. Erik is brilliant, make no mistakes there, he's one of the greats of our time. But he is…"

"Tempestuous?" Christine offered. "Difficult?"

"He's an absolute bastard."

His candidness made Christine guffaw. Finally, she had her teacher and friend back to her warm self.

"So I've signed up for classes with a maniacal musical recluse?"

"He won't hurt you," she said firmly. "He's a good man. A great man. But please, remember you don't owe him anything. You're free to leave him if you so wish."

"No offence, Ms Giry, but you're not doing much to alleviate any concerns I might have," she said, trying to sound jovial but unable to hide her growing unnerved state. Ms Giry's expression didn't help matters.

"What is it you think he wants from me?" Christine asked.

"I think the more pertinent question is, what do you want from him?"

She shrugged.

"Pretty hard to say no to _the _Erik Leroux offering private tutorials."

"His appeal is understandable, but I've known you for several years now Christine, and I know you're not the kind of person to be taken in by something as superfluous as celebrity. Erik may loathe that term and may have spent most of his life rejecting the concept but he is for all intents and purposes a celebrity."

"He's also one of the greatest living musical talents. Even you said that. Why wouldn't I want lessons from the greatest?"

"Do you want to be the greatest?"

"Don't we all?"

She didn't respond to her loaded question, although Christine doubted Ms Giry, or anyone else, would ever honestly answer that. Wanting greatness was still considered to be a standard marker of arrogance, a bigger crime than failing in some circles. Even in the ego driven world of professional musicians, admitting you wanted to be the best would result in scoffs of amusement and occasional anger. Not even men could get away from this attitude, although they were far more likely to do so than women. Men were geniuses; women were divas.

Ms Giry opened his desk and pulled out a small cardboard box.

"Erik likes to be in control of his lines of communication," she explained as Christine opened the box to reveal an iPhone. "He'll contact you through this device and this device alone. He'll pay the bill and would prefer it if you didn't use it to phone anyone else."

"I do have my own mobile," Christine sighed. There was no need for this arrangement to be as dramatic as Erik was making it. Perhaps he'd always wanted a secret agent style double life and this was his chance to try it.

"I'm here if you need me, Christine, and so is Meg. You'll be great one day, I know it."

She nodded, not sure how else to respond to that, although her burning cheeks gave away her discomfort. She pocketed the phone and left the empty box on the nearest table before slinging her bag over her shoulder and turning to the door.

"One more thing," she said. "If Erik Leroux is such a super secretive recluse who answers to nobody then why was he judging auditions for a mid-level student orchestra?"

Ms Giry laughed heartily.

"Even the great Mr Leroux owes a few favours now and then."

No sooner had Christine received a curt text message on her new phone from Leroux informing her of their first tutorial when his driver honked the horn outside her flat. She cancelled the snarky reply she was halfway through writing and quickly grabbed her things. With two mobile phones clattering against one another in her satchel, she felt as if she were part of some secret conspiracy. In a manner of speaking, she thought, this sort of is one.

The driver – the same man from the previous evening – did not speak to her as they headed to their destination, something that suited Christine just fine. She put on her headphones and listened to Beyoncé, the volume just high enough for the driver to hear it and give slight disapproving looks in the mirror. She rolled her eyes and went back to ignoring him, having no time for such musical snobbery.

She hadn't expected two nights in a row at the New Usher – that place occasionally had public performances to open for, after all – but she still found herself surprised when the car stopped by the row of 3 bay town-houses on Regent Terrace. The driver silently pointed her to number 22.

As she exited the car, she wondered why she'd expected something different for Leroux's residence. The New Town had always attracted the rich and elite – indeed, it had been built for that explicit purpose – and not even Leroux could argue that he fit that description to a tee. This street exuded subtle opulence, with its large rectangular windows and cast iron balconies. To live here was an explicit statement of success. Recluses and notoriously private individuals didn't tend to brag about such things.

Then again, the guy had seemingly free use of the city's biggest performance space and enough disposable income to pay out on iPhones for people he barely knew. Maybe he not so secretly loved to splash out his cash.

That idea quickly left her head as she entered the building, but what she saw fit her previous ideas about Leroux. The décor remained simple, utilitarian, and almost clinical. Some paintings adorned the walls, the kind of abstract shapeless blobs of grey most commonly described as modern art, but there were no photographs. The cream carpet remained free of the stains, there were no shoes lined up by the wall, the metal stand by the door held no jackets. Neutral tones from top to bottom, with the only spot of colour coming from the glowing red dot of the large flat-screen television in the immense living room. This barely touched presentation of a half-lived life felt like a cross between a showroom and a mausoleum.

"Hello?" She called out. "Mr Leroux?"

She slowly wandered through the living room to the kitchen; a modern design with top of the range equipment that seemed to have never been used. She felt uneasy about touching anything and wondered if she'd wiped her feet properly upon entering. Apart from the muffled noise of a car outside driving back onto the main road, the sound of her breaths remained her only companion.

She headed back to the hallway and up the stairs, recounting her self-defence training in her mind as she moved. The trepidation of being potentially alone in an abandoned house overrode her irritation over being the chew-toy of an infamously reclusive rich boy who seemed to find the idea of a simple phone call impossible. The entire scenario was a stormy night away from being a gothic novel and she had no time for that.

"Hello?" She called out again, pushing against the ajar door at the top of the stairs. Leroux stood in view, hands behind his back, wearing another suit that practically screamed money. Behind him sat a grand piano with a disorganised pile of sheet music on top. It seemed to be the only thing in this soulless shell of a building with any semblance of personality.

"Good evening, Christine," he said with a nod.

"Did you not hear me yelling downstairs for you?"

"I did, but I find it uncouth to scream in my own property."

"Sorry to lower the tone," she said, sounding as far from apologetic as she could manage.

"Take out your instrument and we'll begin."

She complied, dumping her rucksack by the door and taking out her trumpet. She stood in front of Leroux, as still as she could manage, with her instrument in her left hand, and let him stare her down, scrutinising every minute detail of her person. Christine dared to call herself attractive – with her rich brown hair, sculpted eyebrows and pale skin thankfully unscarred after many years of acne, she knew she turned more than a few heads. Her clothing choices were based more on comfort than style, favouring floaty skirts, thick tights and blazers found on overstuffed racks in charity shops. When the occasion called for it, she scrubbed up well, but tonight was not such a night.

"Stand straight," Leroux ordered. "Chin up, chest out, feet apart at shoulder width."

Standing in her ordered pose, she felt like a model posing for a sculptor. Maybe a soldier under drill training was a more accurate description, she thought.

"Pick a point in front of you and focus on it. Do not let any other sight distract you."

She shuffled slightly to the left and focused on the top corner of the room, mostly because there were almost no other distinguishing features to keep her gaze on. Leroux stood close by, closer than what would be considered a professional distance. His dark eyes were just in her sight. If he came any closer, she imagined she'd see the crow's feet by his eyes or the tiny streaks of grey in the temples of his thick black hair.

"Bring your instrument to your lips," he said, softly but no less commanding. "Think of it as a natural extension of your body."

Once again, she did as she was told and pressed the mouthpiece to her lips, as she had done many times before, more time than she could count. The stance came so naturally she barely thought about it as she kept her elbows parallel and chin up, remaining sturdy under Leroux's scrutinising gaze.

"This is all too stiff," he said dismissively. "You stand like you've been turned to stone. No wonder your audition was sub-par."

Christine desperately wanted to reply but decided the smartest response would be to remain still and await further instruction. She jolted as his hands wrapped around her forearms and gently forced her to lower them, just an inch or so. His body seemed to envelope hers while he shifted her into position, the warmth of his well-built frame radiating against her willowy form. It was almost enough to take her breath away.

"Try that," he said, voice void of warmth, as he stepped back and watched her, arms folded tightly against his chest.

With another deep breath, she readied herself and played the first few notes of _La Vie En Rose_. It had worked reasonably well last time so hopefully her luck would continue, she thought. However, she barely made it to the 3rd note before Leroux rose his hand and signalled for her to stop.

"Again," he said.

What was wrong with that, she wondered. It sounded perfectly fine to her. How could she improve if he offered no further direction? Suppressing her enquiries, she started again. This time, she made it to the 6th note before he stopped her.

"This is flat." He was beginning to sound irritated. Good, Christine thought. That makes two of us.

"There is no excuse for you droning your way through the simplest of songs. Each note should be distinct from the preceding note while flowing naturally as intended. This…" He motioned his hand towards her as if she were something to be dismissed, to be condemned.

"What?" She asked, unable to remain silent for much longer.

"This is lifeless. There is nothing to this whining that even hints of potential."

"How would you know that when you won't even let me play the full piece?"

"It's not necessary. It is the job of a musician to grab the listener from the first note."

"I'd argue otherwise."

"Again."

"What?"

"I was under the impression that you possessed perfect hearing. Start again."

She bit back another reply of 'what' and played again, focusing on the notes, seeing the procession of beat after beat in her mind. The sheet music filled her thoughts to the point where she could even envision the dog-eared corners of the pages, the result of too many days spent crammed in her satchel. Each note came, clear and almost forceful, and she had to regain control of her hands, which seemed to be possessed by a rueful force. This was not a song to be played in the fits of rage.

This time, she managed to play 4 whole bars before Leroux interrupted with a clearing of his throat.

"An improvement. You're forcing the notes down too hard. Your instrument is not to be brutalised. Tap each valve, do not slam them down. Again."

"No."

"No?"

She shook her head.

"This is ridiculous. What am I supposed to be learning here?"

"You are learning how to play."

"I know how to play. I've been playing for most of my life."

"If you want to call it playing."

"Okay, this is bloody pointless. I didnae come here to be insulted, so if you're just gonna keep this shite up, I'm leavin'."

Leroux smirked, or did so as much as his mask would allow.

"Did you know you sound so much more Scottish when you're angry?" He asked. Christine didn't find it charming. She stepped back towards her case and picked it up.

"We're not done here yet," Leroux said.

"Yes we are, Mr Leroux. This was not a lesson; this was an interrogation." She emphasised each syllable clearly, partly to make her point and partly to soften her accent, which did indeed become more Scottish when her emotions ran high. Not that she was ashamed of it, she reminded herself. It just made things a tad more difficult when she wished to be serious with non-Scots. To the outside world, her accent remained a source of comedy more than anything else.

"I told you I would be a tough tutor," he said, remaining eerily still as he watched Christine grab her things.

"Tough I can deal with. This is just impossible. What am I supposed to learn from this?"

"What is the purpose of _La Vie En Rose_?" He asked.

"What, do you want an essay on theory?"

"It's one of the most overplayed songs in modern music. It's a cheap stand-in for all things French in every Hollywood production of the past few decades and it's been butchered by all manner of amateurs."

"Tell me what you really think," Christine said drolly.

"Tell me what _you _think of it, Ms Daae. You are French, after all."

"My dad was French."

"But you were born there, yes?"

"Yeah but so were you. Wait, how do you know where I was born?"

"Why did you pick this song when you performed for me last night?"

She noted his avoidance of her question and made a mental memo to further interrogate him on the issue later.

"It's…" She shrugged. "I don't know. It's a beautiful song. Yeah, it's overplayed but it still packs that emotional punch. It's about being so enamoured with someone that the world stops around you and nothing can spoil that."

"Is that something you believe?"

She snorted. This entire discussion had quickly veered into armchair psychology and she had no interest in that.

"It doesn't matter what I believe; countless others believe it. There's power in that."

"Is there?"

"Some things are popular for a reason."

Silence fell between the two of them, and Christine didn't desire to spoil it. She preferred him when he remained quiet. For an infamous recluse in a melodramatic mask, he sure did like to talk. His sneering and cynicism reminded her of a music critic she had encountered in her youth: An embittered old man of fading stature who seemed to take more joy in destroying people's passion for music than the music itself. If her playing was indeed so mediocre then why had he decided to focus so much of his attention on her? Christine wondered if he got to have these kinds of conversations often. Did he have friends he invited around on the weekend to share musical opinions with? Were there fellow composers or performers he accompanied to public performances, followed by warm company and that truly satisfying sensation of being?

Her eyes flickered across his face, from his scalpel-sharp cheekbones to his lacquered down hair, from the cold and pristine porcelain of his mask to the impenetrable darkness of his eyes. She didn't know anyone's eyes could be so black.

"Play again," he said, quietly but firmly. For some reason she couldn't explain, she took out her trumpet again and played.

With each note, she thought of the old Louis Armstrong record she had, in storage somewhere in her home town along with a lifetime of ghosts and nostalgia. She thought of Armstrong's voice, so gritty and full of character, and the way the muted trumpet so perfectly accompanied it. It wasn't a song that held any special memories for her, nor did she consider it a particular favourite, but she couldn't deny the swell in her heart it elicited every time she heard it.

This time, each note came distinctly, a little more sharply than her previous attempts, with less focus on a smooth transition from note to note. It felt more of the moment, looser and almost improvised. With her eyes closed and spine straight, she kept her focus solely on the music and not the mask man who had proven so impossible to please. It didn't even dawn on her until she finished that he had yet to interrupt her.

The silence returned once she ended the piece, and she opened her eyes. His gaze and expression her inscrutable. Perhaps that was why he wore the mask: It provided the perfect shield from his own emotions.

"Yes," he said. "That's it."

"That's what?"

The visible side of his mouth twitched into something Christine supposed could be defined as a smile.

"I think we shall leave it there for tonight, Ms Daae," he added.

How could he just leave her hanging like that, she thought. She finally cracked the damn code with this infuriating man and he wouldn't even tell her what she had done right. How could this qualify as a lesson if she had no idea what she was learning?

"The next time we see each other, I want you to bring with you a piece of music you have or have had difficulty learning."

"Okay."

"My driver will return you to your home. Enjoy your evening."

Without another word, Leroux left the room. Christine rolled her eyes at the dramatics – it was a bit hard to make an exit when you lived in the building – and quickly packed up, filled with a sense of something that resembled satisfaction but permeated with frustration. She skipped down the stairs, bags in hand, and left Leroux's house. She didn't think it could be called a home.


End file.
